


bullseye

by peradi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, luke skywalker's force powers do absurd things to reality, poe dameron's insecurities they show, that fic that has been chewing at the back of my brain for a while, time travel crack with some feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:18:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: Poe Dameron, the Resistance’s Most Handsome Pilot (voted as such five years running), is baffled. A word which here means he is in a fucking desert and his last memory is going to sleep in his bed which, last time he checked, was not a fucking desert.Poe travels back in time and meets Luke Skywalker. Things are confusing.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/gifts).



> guess what show I've been watching. 
> 
> also sorry for the delay leupagus, I know i promised this a while ago. hope you like it! less porn than originally planned but uh. sorry.

There’s a theory among the Jedi -- or was a theory, back when the Jedi had a council, and academics, and universities, and was not just reduced to one (1) swamp-based frog creature and one (1) beard-brandishing hermit -- that those truly, truly powerful in the Force could bend time itself around them. After all, what did the Force care for little things like Time?

 

There are lots of theories among the Jedi, and this one in particular was the favourite of Anakin Skywalker, who would meditate long and hard on the topic; this is back in the early days of his training, before  _ killing all the Jedi  _ became a valid career move. He would meditate on it, and read about it, and daydream about flickering back through time like a ghost in the middle of a fight, carving down enemies moments before they hurt his friends. He could save so many lives. 

 

And he could win so many matches of Sabbat against Obi-Wan.  _ So many _ . 

 

But Anakin died, and all the Jedi died, and the council and academics and universities died with them, and the theories and thoughts were lost. And it didn’t matter much anyway, because if Anakin Skywalker -- the most powerful Jedi ever to draw breath -- couldn’t master time manipulation, then who could?

 

It wasn’t like there was ever going to be anyone stronger than him. 

 

No. No one would ever outclass Anakin Skywalker, not now and not ever. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Luke Skywalker, chosen one, wakes up with a hangover so potent he’s eighty per cent sure that he is dead and the Force is using his soul as target practice. His teeth seem to have dissolved into a furry sludge, coating his tongue and his head feels both very small and very large and is completely full of pain. 

 

“Wakey wakey!” singsongs his aunt, obnoxiously and obstinately a morning person, swinging the door open. She’s got a mug of milk in one hand, toast in the other and though she is smiling she is clearly an agent of the deepest, darkest evil because who else would refuse to take pity on a dying man?

 

“Out with Biggs?” Uncle Owen says at the dinner table, and Luke makes a noise that could be a word. “Heard that there was a lot of you out in the bluffs. Got to be careful with Sand People around.”

 

Luke makes another noise. An expert at linguistics might offer a 50/50 chance that this noise was made by a sapient species.

 

“Anyway, there’s a nest of womp rats by the north-west well. You’ll go sort them out.”

 

Luke gathers the last reservoirs of his strength and heaves the words forth: “...afternoon?”

 

“No. Now.”

 

Owen is a sadist of the highest order, married to a krayt dragon in human form. 

 

The krayt dragon kisses Luke’s cheek, offers him some painkillers and a packed lunch, and okay maybe she’s not that bad. 

 

It takes him three goes to get into his T-16. The first two end up with him dry-heaving into the sand. 

 

He’s going to kill Biggs ‘this-isn’t-that-boozy’ Darklighter when he finds him. He’s going to string his guts out for womp rat bait and he will eat his fucking  _ heart  _ \--

 

\-- oh shit, he should not have thought of  _ eating  _ anything because hey that’s not dry heaving at all. That’s the opposite of dry-heaving. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Luke vomits three times more before he gets to the womp-rat nest and he’s pretty sure that he now knows what death tastes like -- here’s a hint, it’s the taste currently lingering in his mouth. 

 

They’re nesting in a cave just north of the most north-western well: not terribly deep -- Luke’s flushed them out of here before, they’re fond of returning to old nesting sites -- but perilously narrow, far too narrow for his T-14. 

 

That’s why they nest there, probably. Because they’re against them. The whole fucking world is at the moment, oh his head hurts.

 

(Luke doesn’t know that in this instant, this breath of time, he is closer to his father than he has ever been.)

 

(Then he shakes off his self-pity.)

  
  


\--

  
  


There is a madman hanging out by the womp rat nest. He is dressed in orange, burbling to himself, and wandering towards sharp-fanged near-certain death. It’s sheer dumb luck that the rats aren’t out yet. They probably hunted late, gorged themselves, and are sleeping off whatever unfortunate creature they had for dinner. 

 

Luke  _ had _ been planning to strafe over the womp nest a couple of times, stir them up, pick them off when they got angry (a plan that makes his hungover soul tremble, weep, and cling to his ribcage saying  _ nooooo life isn’t fair _ ).

 

That plan needs some adjustment. 

 

Luke’s perched atop a dune overlooking the cave system the womps have named home. His T-16, held together by spit and prayer, hums happily around him. He’s loathe to leave it -- partly because there could be sand people, but mostly because he’s genuinely scared that sudden movements will cost him more stomach lining. And dignity. 

 

The madman falls over. Drags himself to his feet, and in the process turns around. He’s got thick black hair and a  _ very _ good looking face. He squints against the sun -- Luke’s approached with the sun behind him, because he’s hungover not an idiot -- and shouts, “Hey!”

 

He waves an arm around. 

 

_ Force fuck me, he might as well be dancing around with a sign around his neck that reads WOMP LUNCH EXTRA DUMB,  _ Luke thinks. 

 

He’s going to have to get out of the T-16. 

  
  


\--

  
  


“What the fuck?” says Poe, a little dazed. 

 

There’s blood on his face.

 

There’s blood  _ everywhere _ .

  
  


\--

  
  


Okay. Rewind. 

 

Poe Dameron, the Resistance’s Most Handsome Pilot (voted as such five years running), is baffled. A word which here means  _ he is in a fucking desert and his last memory is going to sleep in his bed which, last time he checked, was not a fucking desert _ . 

 

It is possible he is dreaming. However: Poe does not think he is. His dreams are not so lifelike. It is very hot, and all the moisture has been sucked from his mouth, and his lips have cracked open like lizardskin. He is bleeding. 

 

He often bleeds in dreams -- hello, repressed battlefield trauma worming up from the mire that is his subconscious -- but this is different. 

 

This is real life.

 

Anyway: he waves at the shape on the sand-dune, and watches somewhat warily as a humanoid stumbles from the ship. (a word which here means  _ he is in a fucking desert and his last memory is going to sleep in his bed which, last time he checked, was not a fucking desert and now there is a person and he doesn’t know whether or not to trust the person in this strange fucking place _ .)

 

(Isn’t learning fun?)

 

“Hey!” Poe shouts again. The humanoid waves his arms madly. His lips move. Poe can’t make out what he is saying. He decides to inform the humanoid of this. “I -- can’t -- hear --” 

 

Three words -- three  _ shouted  _ words -- deep into the explanation Poe realises that the humanoid is making frantic  _ shushing  _ gestures. 

  
  


\--

  
  


It all happens very quickly after that. 

 

Poe lapses into silence. There’s the hunting scream of the lead womp; the pack charges forth; Luke fires fifteen times; and then blood sprays over Poe’s face and he stares at his saviour and manages, “What the  _ fuck _ .”

  
  


\--

  
  


Luke leaps from patch of unbloodied rock to unbloodied rock, not wanting to get his favourite pair of boots covered in womp. “You okay?” he says. The handsome madman has a spray of red over his face. He doesn’t look very happy.   

“I’m not normally so loud,” says the madman. “I’m a bit thrown by this whole thing really. I was asleep in my bed. And then there was a desert. I’m an Intelligence officer normally.” He sighs. “I might be dreaming. Am I dreaming?”

 

Luke says, “I might be,” and then thinks  _ nope, none of this, can’t be flirting now. _

 

“I’m Poe. Poe Dameron.” He grins. His teeth are very white. He has a very nice smile.

 

“Luke. Luke Skywalker.”

 

Poe’s eyebrows vanish into his fringe. 

 

“...huh,” he says.

  
  


\--

  
  


“Aren’t you going to tell me what’s so strange?” says Luke. “Because all you’ve been doing is muttering about how you’re almost definitely dreaming. You could be sun-touched, but I’d be astonished if you’d managed to live out in the sands long enough to  _ get _ sun touched.”

 

Poe Dameron blinks at him. They’re sitting by his T-16, while Luke mops the blood and womp off his new friend’s face. He’s taking his time doing it, partly because he wants to do a good job but mostly because he really likes touching Poe Dameron’s face. There is a pleasing amount of stubble, and some very good bone structure. 

 

“What day is it?” manages Poe. “What  _ year  _ is it?”

 

Luke desists in his cleaning attempts. Even he has to admit that Poe’s face has been spotless for the past three minutes, and he’s just caressing his jawline. It’s a little creepy. 

 

“The thirty ninth year of Jabba’s benevolent reign,” says Luke, “and Workday Fifteen.”

 

“Workday Fifteen?”

 

“You know -- twenty eight work days, one market day -- “

 

“Oh. Tatooine calendar. What’s the standard year?” 

 

Luke says, “Don’t you mean imperial year?” And then he tells him. 

 

Poe goes white. 

 

“Oh,” he says, “fuck.”

  
  


\--

  
  


“You should probably come home with me,” says Luke Skywalker, actual living legend Luke Skywalker, Last of the Jedi Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker who is apparently a Tatooine farmboy still and also Poe Dameron has travelled back in time. 

 

Why.  _ How. _

 

“Yes,” says Poe. “I probably should.”

 

“My T-16 is pretty cramped,” says Luke, and grins -- oh Force, he  _ grins _ and it isn’t a smile it is a Grin™ that might as well be nudging Poe Dameron a shot of something suspiciously strong. This is Luke Skywalker, flirting. This is Luke Skywalker, flirting with all of his famed Skywalker subtlety. Poe wants to both wail hysterically  _ this is not the time or the place!  _ or take advantage of the situation because baby Luke is actually very pretty.

 

But then Luke steps a little too close and  _ urgh _ he smells of vomit, stale booze and womp rat blood. A lot of womp rat blood. 

 

“Okay,” says Poe. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  
  


\--

  
  


They do. And on the way, chatty Luke reveals the following:

 

“It sounds ridiculous, but just last night I was saying to Biggs that I wanted an adventure; I wanted someone to just fall from the sky; I said -- you’ll laugh at this -- that I shouted to the sky, to the Force, that I wanted someone there to have an adventure with, from some far off and interesting place --”

 

The Force loves its Skywalkers, thinks Poe, huddling up behind Luke (Luke makes a happy little sounds and shifts backwards against him.) And of course, if it’s favourite one is crying out for a friend then it will answer. 

 

Poe fends off Luke’s constant questions with a half-arsed explanation about being a cargo pilot’s scout who crash landed, and who is waiting for his friends to come and pick me up. Luke rolls his eyes, doesn’t believe him, but eventually stops pressing. And they soar on, over the red red sands.  

 

After a while, Poe says, “I wouldn’t laugh at that.”

 

“What?”

 

“At you shouting at the Force for an adventure. For purpose. I’ve done it. I know what it’s like to…” and he thinks of the New Republic, who pretended that everything was a-okay, even as the First Order won victory after victory, gnawing at the edges of Republic territory like a feral animal. He remembers the deaths in Trillia, the Temple massacre --- the Senate who believed  _ it was the Knights of Ren they have nothing to do with the Order, nothing at all _ . He remembers his father, so desperate to avoid another war.  _ Appeasement _ . If that word had an image it would be this: the sheep baring its throat to the butcher’s knife. 

 

“To want to escape,” says Luke. 

 

“Yeah,” says Poe, “yeah, something like that.”

 

He hugs Luke tighter.

 

“You will, you know,” he says.

 

“Will what?”

 

“Escape. Make a difference.”

 

“I always wanted to find my father,” says Luke. “I -- I know he’s dead, but I had this dream that he wasn’t. Is that strange?”

 

“Not at all,” says Poe. The enormity of his knowledge presses on his shoulders. Should he warn the boy?  _ Could _ he? 

 

“I’m sure you’ll be greater than him,” he says. The little judder of Luke’s spine tells Poe that this is the first time anyone has suggested the possibility to him.

  
  


\--

  
  


Ben Kenobi, in his cave, opens one eye. “Fucking Skywalkers,” he mutters, and closes it again. He senses no immediate danger. Just the normal trials and tribulations of a teenage boy, desperate for companionship and strong enough to tear open reality.

  
  


\--

  
  


By the time they get back to the moisture farm, Poe Dameron has a working idea of when and where he is, and how he came to be here. 

 

The brief summation of the theory is: the Force did it. 

 

The longer version is: Luke Skywalker was heartbroken about Biggs Darklighter leaving, and somehow his nascent Force ability responded to this by opening up a crack in Time and pulling Poe Dameron through. 

 

It isn’t a great theory, and he isn’t entirely sure how to get back, and he’s  _ still _ not convinced that this isn’t a dream.

 

Still. 

 

Luke’s home is empty.-- “My aunt and uncle will be out on the moisture fields!” -- and Luke makes straight for the refresher block. Poe, not entirely sure what else to do, follows him. He finds Luke stripped down, wiping himself clean with a rag. There’s no shower. There’s one tap in the wall with a bucket underneath.

 

Several facts occur to Poe in quick succession. One: water is very rare on Tatooine, to the extent that people do not shower. Two: Luke had a bottle of water with him. Three: he, without a moment’s hesitation, had used that water to mop the blood and gore off Poe’s face. 

 

Poe met Luke -- the older Luke -- through his parents, and he’d developed a complete hero-crush (who wouldn’t?); but that had been a Luke who could control his Force presence. But this one -- 

 

Poe’s Force-sensitivity is minimal. It makes him an excellent pilot. He’s good with people, and he has an uncanny sense of danger. It’s never going to make him a Jedi. But right now it is blinding him. Luke is shining. He’s too big for the room he stands in. 

 

He’s --

 

He’s blushing. 

 

Luke grabs the most hideous poncho Poe has ever seen and tugs it on. His cheeks are rosy still. Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . 

 

_ I was not brought back in time to fuck Luke Skywalker, I was not --  _

 

“While I wait for my friends to come get me --”

 

“Your cargo pilot friends, who are totally not rebels, or imperial spies, or gangsters, or -- “

 

“-- _ why don’t we go flying _ ,” says Poe. Teeth clenched. It’s something he knows how to do, at least.

  
  


\--

  
  


“How many people have died in Beggar’s Canyon?” says Poe. 

 

“Fifteen. In the last month. They call it the racers graveyard.”

 

Poe’s grin is huge, and lethal. 

 

“Let’s do it.”

  
  


\--

  
  


They charge up and down the canyon until the sky turns a milky violet, taking it in turns to put the T-16 through her paces. Poe’s not used to flying craft that audibly groan when you turn corners, but he takes it all in stride. 

 

Luke’s magic. There’s no other word for it. He’ll fly backwards around ninety degree turns, turn the engines off and let the T-16 plummet before restarting them and climbing ninety feet in half a heartbeat; he’ll twist and turn and dance, the T-16 moving around him like it is an extra limb. 

 

Poe tries his best to keep up. He loses himself in the wildness of flight, shouting encouragement from the sidelines --  _ Skywalker you bastard, could have given me a heart attack!  _ \-- and flipping Luke off when he manages to pull of a particularly difficult spin. And afterwards, as inky blackness starts to well up on the horizon, he leaps out of the T-16, tugs his helmet off and --

 

Luke kisses him. 

 

“Before your friends come back,” he pants against Poe’s mouth. Poe’s kissing back, very enthusiastically indeed, knotting his fingers into Luke’s sunshine-yellow hair, tugging that ridiculous poncho off, bearing him into the sand, splaying his legs open and -- “Before you go too, please, please -- “

 

“You’re not alone,” says Poe, kissing Luke’s nose. “You’re not alone, you’ve got to understand that -- “

 

“There’s so much out there!” says Luke, and his eyes flash gold and Poe’s knees  _ quiver _ . The boy in his arms is  _ so much more  _ than the desert around him, the planet they are on. He holds the ability to tear open reality in his pretty little hands and he doesn’t even know it.

 

He’s terrifying. And he used the last of his drinking water to wash blood and gore off the face of a stranger. And he’s spreading his legs for Poe in the sands.

 

Poe kisses him again. He kisses his neck. He kisses a line down his chest, and breathes, “You’re so much more than you think you are,” against his collarbone, and Luke  _ whines _ . 

 

“So are you,” he says, “so are you, you’re more more  _ more -- “ _

  
  


\--

  
  


When Poe opens his eyes, it is to his own bunk, and his own room, and BB-8 cheeping in the corner:  _ ship incoming, Friend Rey is coming back with Luke! _

 

Was it just a dream then? Makes sense. If anyone was to be pulled back in time, it would be Leia, or Rey, or Finn. Compared to the chosen ones of the Force, Poe's nothing. He's just a pilot. An intelligence officer. He'll die for the rebellion one day -- that's how it works.   
  


 

When he gets out of bed, red sand spills from the folds of his flight suit. For a moment, he stares at it. And then he laughs out loud:  _you are so much more, more more_. 

 

It's going to be an awkward second meeting. And a  _fantastic_ one.

 

 


End file.
